


his words, her love

by loewen_grube



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loewen_grube/pseuds/loewen_grube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the tales are real, but then again, no one seems to believe them. But they're real and cherished, either way; remembering them is all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. overheard birdsong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "things you said when you thought i was asleep."

She slept in Varric's room — not because she wanted to make love or anything like that but — because his room was close and invitingly warm.

There was a small party of unknown reasons in the Herald's Rest, and she was unwittingly pulled into the celebrations before she knew it, dared and threatened and coerced in equal measures to participate in drinking contests and silly dares and all the like. It was no surprise that she ended up in Varric's room, but she has barely unbuttoned her coat and undone her socks before she just dropped down on the bed and took up most of the space after the dwarf had so generously offered it to spare her "the walk of drunken shame" back to her own room.

He wriggles in with her, anyway, despite his inane prodding. His hands were a welcome sensation against her back, and she could stay and wriggle against his chest for Maker knows how long, if only mornings did not exist.

But alas, they did, as she was woken up with hushed voices, and the soft turn of the knob.

"I don't think this is the right place for today, Varric."

Cassandra was still half-asleep when she heard the voice, but she recognizes it to be the Inquisitor's, seeing her blue-green embroidered shirt in full view.  In her half-awake stupor, she pretends to turn around with eyes closed so she could overhear, knowing that it is probably not a good idea to 'wake up' and disturb them. There were more hushed conversation — Mithiin asking if it's okay to be in the room because Cassandra was there, dirty jokes — but the pleasantries were quickly gone.

Varric groans audibly and picks up a few pieces of parchment. The way it makes noise, he got it out of the trash bin and was smoothening the sheets out from their crumpled-ball state.

"Keep quiet, Cassandra's a light sleeper."

"Then why are we doing this here?"

"Because if you open the door again, she'll wake up."

"Then you should have just come out earlier!"

"Wishes, I _wish_ I could still do something about that, but now we're stuck. Will we keep on now?"

More paper crinkling. Varric audibly grumbles to himself as he does, and it sounds like Mithiin was trying to stifle her laughter.

"You know... Wishes, this isn't working—"

"It will! Now go and read that to me. I forgot the last line, what was it again?"

He sighs. "It's non-existent. Now will you hear the first stanza?"

Stanza? Is Cassandra right on what she thinks this is?

"I heard that already, that was pretty good. Now the third one, then."

" _'He'd map his way and tell the tale, of scars and tears and how he held her close—'_ "

Holy shit. This _is_ a poetry session. Cassandra would have laughed if only she was not pretending to be asleep, but she managed to just keep a smile just as Mithiin cuts Varric off before he moves on to the next line.

"That escalated quickly."

He groans. "That's how romance novels are supposed to go!"

"But this isn't a novel, it's a _poem_. You should be sensual. And... _flowery_." She stops, as if letting that sink in, before letting him continue. "And stop using ' _he_ '. Next."

Cassandra can tell that even though Varric's a king of words, this was foreign territory that Mithiin ruled over — the world of flowery language and figures of speech that held another meaning. Varric sighs again as he read on, line after line of adjectives poorly matched with their proper objects, and Cassandra was sure that Mithiin was already rubbing her temple trying to figure out what to say. The words were drowned in her half-asleep state, but she overhears the last few lines of the fourth stanza.

Or at least, what's of it so far.

" _'Of how he'd kiss her worries away, and she'd laugh in return; of how she was the first, the last, the special -- his seeker, his lioness, his princess."_ " He pauses before he stops the poetry, "Now, please just tell me what's wrong so we could move on--"

Mithiin just seems to look at Varric in surprise before she claps softly.

"See, I told you. This won't—"

"That was amazing! That last line— _wow_!"

"Well, I'm good at smothering people with praises, thank—"

"No, you're not. True love only happens once!" If Cassandra would turn around at this very moment, she'd probably see Mithiin smiling like a little child with sweets. "Match that with so many roses and candles and she'd be swooning."

Varric laughs. "I have more were that came from. _'He held her close and made her stay, like life and love and--'_ wait, the word 'love' doesn't work, it's too dramati—"

" _'I paint what I see, or rather, I paint what I want to see.'_ " Mithiin pauses, and for some reason, Cassandra could hear the grin. " _'It's hard to tell the difference.'_ That's already one poem, and that's just a stanza long! I thought you always wanted to embellish? What happened to that?" Mithiin laughs softly. There was a silence as she seem to take the parchment from Varric's hands. "Let's go back to basics. I doubt you want to start with romantic poems right on. That's not your thing, right?"

"It isn't," he grumbles.

"It took me five months of hard-on poetry to write my first amorous poem," she narrates, "and it sounded so dirty and bad I was sent to say sorry to Mythal for offending her."

"I get the point, now if you're here to laugh about my lack of poetry skills, I don't think I want to hear it."

"What I'm saying is that, treat it like your relationship. Steady, slow, then go back to the really sensual parts enough to make the Maker blush! And you're doing great on that part!"

"I've started on that part."

"She liked _Swords and Shields_ ," Mithiin pointed out. "And that had terrible pacing. Poems are different. You say it, and you say it _well_."

"Look, Wishes," Varric says. "I'm asking for your help about this because I know you were the one who wrote those cheesy poems that they have been sharing in the tavern. Cassandra _loved_ those. Sometimes more than my novels. And I'm needing some new material here and seeing you're the best poet around--"

Mithiin laughed so hard that Cassandra thinks she doesn't even care if she woke her up. "I can recite the erotic poems for you, if you're too embarrassed. _'My limb, a sacred hymn on your lips, whose hidden notes you sing—'_ "

"Okay, I get it." There was some papers flying around, and some loud clattering of chairs and stools as Varric forces Mithiin out. One of the papers flew to Cassandra's face, and that was when she had to cut the act and wake up. It was evident Varric was desperately trying to push Mithiin out of the door as she tries to recite yet another erotic poem. "Get _out_."

"What was that?" Cassandra asks, rubbing the sleepiness off her eyes just as Mithiin was out of the room with a satisfying _SLAM_ of the door. "That was Mithiin, right?"

"Yes, she just dropped by to check on you." He hands her a mug of bergamot tea, which Cassandra did not notice earlier. It was as black as the Maker's wrath and it had gone somewhat cold, but it's a good boost as she sips and smiles through the thought of Varric's poetry, as the person in question desperately tries to hide the evidence of the poetry session.

"I heard some clattering. Are you sure everything is all right?" There is no sound in the room for a moment except the sound of the seeker sipping her tea.

"That's how she greet people nowadays, it seems."

Cassandra finds herself laughing, knowing how smoothly he lies, but the butterflies inside her chest as she thinks of his future poetry kept her smiling. Varric just takes it as a hangover side effect.

Yet the seeker still found herself surprised when she found Varric's first short poem a few weeks later, written on a small piece of parchment and tucked under her pillow, signed with his name, a drawn smile, and a "I hope you sleep well." It was neither romantic nor erotic, but it was a start, and it was sweetly written that she kept her smile even as she was called back down for a last-minute war council.

 _Ready to take flight_  
_These birds in reach of the laws of earth._  
_We have dreamt of a thousand years of flight_  
_Failing always and going back to earth._  
_Perhaps where we belong_  
_To dip the quill_  
_In search of bird song._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I got a little too excited about the poetry thing.
> 
> Sadly, not all the poems in this thing is written by me. I'll put in the authors here of the one-stanza poem and the erotic poem Mithiin quotes once I get them 'cause all I have are first names, but the last one is by my CW prof. ouo;; But the thing Varric is working on is by me, yes.
> 
> Next time, I'll have more originality, but let me launch this whole poem fic tirade while I'm at it.


	2. pressed flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a first kiss prompt for an anon on tumblr. Sorry, this was way too overdue.

Cassandra has been getting all the crazy amount of flowers for the past few weeks.

Most of the bouquets were variants of roses, and Maker knows how much all of these cost. Good flowers are hard to find nowadays, with the war and all, and all of the bouquets had a dozen pieces. She appreciates the thought, and she would love to send her thanks...

... if only she knew who sent them. There were no tags or cards in the bouquets, save for a short bit of poetry written on the ribbons that held the entire thing together. Individually, the verses never made sense, but she never had time to piece the ribbons together. She has brought them to Leliana so she could figure out who sent them, but even the spymaster has their flaws.

Cassandra feels touched at the secret admirer's effort and thought, but she just needed _someone_ to thank. She needs to know who were sending them. And even though it is a somewhat stupid idea, she posted it up on the tavern -- a note, calling for her secret admirer.

 _Maker_ , she actually has one. Some of the Inquisition's inner circle members started teasing her about it, and that just made her feel a lot more nervous about the response. what if he stopped sending?

As she waited for a week or so, Cassandra tried to piece together the poetry on the ribbons and it had its fair share of flowery words matched with seeker or warrior lady. She was sure that she did not have said grace or finesse -- cleaving a demon's head is anything but beautiful. But if he compared her fighting like a reckoning of the world, Cassandra just has to believe him.

That just made her more anxious for a response,  itching to know who sent these. All these affection, and she could not return it in the slightest. If only she could write her share of poetry, Cassandra would send verses back, but all she knows is that the person is sending her flowers and nothing else.

Flowers came again the next week, left by her practice dummy, like usual -- a dozen crystal graces dotted with sampaguitas in a bottle intended for a small dose of Antivan brandy. Instead of a ribbon, a card was tied around the bottle neck:

> _"Why look for me? Do you not prefer the romance of secret admirers and flowers that came from no one? The truth is strange, oftentimes._
> 
> _It's better for me to hide._
> 
> _-V"_

V? There are a _lot_ of soldiers and officers and workers in Skyhold whose name starts with the letter, so that was not any sort of help. But she shrugs it off for later consideration, quickly rushing to her room. Cassandra sits down by the writing desk and swiftly pens in a reply, as quick as she could write without smudging the ink or hurrying her words. She felt her heart flutter, but at the same time, dread fills her -- what if she could never find out who to thank? Who to appreciate? What if she never finds out who was one of the few people who see her heart beneath everything?

> _"Yes, I would like to thank you for... all of these. I appreciate it. The flowers always bring a smile to my face, everytime I think of it. You make my day. The first rose you have given me are pressed in my favorite book, preserved for the future."_

Cassandra was stopped on continuing when she caught sight of one of the bouquets she was given a week back. She has them all by the windowsill, tended to the best of her ability. But she was not a florist for a reason.

> _"And even though I love this, you poetry, your flowers... Please stop. That is all I ask. I do not wish to waste your efforts._

She signs it, omitting her usual business flourish, and secures the parchment with some thread, and heads out to the practice dummy where the admirer leaves the flowers. She secures it on the dummy shyly with a Chantry board pin -- hoping she gets a response of some kind.

And a few days later, she got one. There were still flowers, but fewer in number -- six white lilies surrounded with small forget-me-nots the color of the sky in a summer day.

> _"You are worth every effort, Cassandra. Why should I stop? Unless someone else has taken your interest? -V"_

The next day, her response was pinned on the dummy with practiced ease, with the same thread tying it up.

> _"All these flowers wilted in due time. It makes me feel strangely sad for such beauty to go to waste just because of me."_

She was so anxious for the response that she forgot to sign it and only folded it once before pinning it again on the dummy. It was for only a few hours before she saw a reply -- no flowers, just a note card.

> _"That can be fixed. Meet me in the ramparts above the tavern after nightfall. I have something for that."_

And that's all it took for Cassandra Pentaghast to be jumpy and nervous for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

Andraste's tits, she was nervous.

She did not know what to wear, but she decided to be sensible and wear her usual padded coat, but she threw in a scarf in the entire get-up in the very scenario that she had to hide her face in shame. You can never be too prepared for anything.

Cassandra walks up to the ramparts, every step like broken glass against bare feet with the way it scares her. As soon as the cold wind hit her, she pulled up the scarf, sat by the edge and hugged her legs to her chest, thinking that maybe this wasn't such a good idea, that maybe it's not worth looking into--

"Seeker?"

She turns to the familiar voice, and took him a while to make out who he was in the dark.

"Varric? What-- what are you doing here?"

Varric wore a blue coat over his nightshirt, but aside from that and his pants and shoes, he had nothing. His hair is not even neatly tied back. He sits by the edge of the ramparts, admiring the view of the entire castle across.

"I-- I am waiting for someone. What about you?"

Cassandra follows his gaze, but settled sitting across him, pulling her scarf closer to her face. "I -- I am also waiting for someone." She pauses, deciding if it is not too intrusive to ask, but goes on anyway, "If I may ask, who are you waiting for?"

Speechless, for once. Varric had no words for a few moments, before he turns to her with the most shit-eating grin he could manage, and speaks his words with as much sarcasm as he could allow. "A certain seeker lady whom I've finally stopped chickening about sending her an _impossible_ amount of flowers and poetry for the past month. She wanted to meet me, so here I--"

"Bullshit!" Cassandra cuts him off before he finished. "That can't be true. You probably saw my note on the tavern."

In response, he turns to her and pulls out a piece of parchment, and opens it up for her to see. She walks closer and grabs it from him, and tries to read the words she could make out from the dark.

It has her handwriting in it.

It was one of her letters.

"See-- Cassandra, _damn_. I've been reading your letters over and over again and I was not sure if I should introduce myself. I mean-- you hated me, wanted to _kill_ me even, so maybe you'd just be disappointe--"

"After I confronted you about Hawke, I thought you will never forgive me." Her voice was shaking, scared and confused, as all the pieces fall together. The V, the poetry, how he knew she was into these things...

_Maker. How could I be that stupid?_

"I understand why you were desperate, and I understood why you were mad. Damn, I actually thought _you_ were mad at me, but... no, I don't keep grudges far too deep like that." He looks at Cassandra straight in the eye. "Especially if I know that it is not worth keeping."

"But... those flowers..." She avoids his gaze, and settles on her shaking hands, the letter that she had sent just days ago still between her fingers. "Those poetry, written on those ribbons..."

"It's just that..." Varric thinks and chooses his words for a while before he gives up. " _Shit_ , seeker. I don't know why but I feel like something came to me when you threw that table and hit me in the head... like... You have been a really nice to me even though I don't deserve it and... fuck, I just have no witty one-liners on how much I _like_ you, okay? There, I said it."

Cassandra just looks at him like he's gone mad. To him, then to the letter still in her hands, then back to him, like she's still figuring out two and two if Varric was telling the truth. When she read his letter this afternoon, she was so excited and nervous to finally meet him, but then again, what was she excited about? What did she even intend to say, just gratitude? She couldn't have thought that it would be that simple. "If you're going to say something along the lines of ' _That was a joke,'_ now is the time to say it," Cassandra says after a few moments, handing back the letter, "because I have no idea if you're just snarking at me."

He tucks back the letter in his jacket, and pulls out a rose, and hands it to her. "It's not going to come. And... look, if you don't want flowers because they'll just wilt, fine. But here, just... well, take it before I chicken out again."

She takes the rose, and as soon as she has it in her fingers could she tell that it was not real.

It was all paper and wire.

But even so, it was beautiful -- it was hand-folded and every crease and fold was measured and it looked just like an actual rose. From the look on Varric's face, its obvious he himself created it.

"A flower that will not wilt, as strong as time, just like yo--"

Before he finishes yet another line of poetry, Cassandra bends down, brushes the stray hair from his forehead, and kisses him there. And later, she levels with his face, and kisses his cheek, too. Her lips lingered there for a moment before she breaks away.

"Thank you," she says, barely audible. "You do not know how many times you have made me smile." A pause, as she fiddles with the rose, admiring it another time. "And its not just the flowers, or the poetry."

"I'd love to see you smile everyday, you know."

She bends down and presses one last kiss for the night, just at the edge of his lips, before she walks away as he just watches as she does so. But not before she turns to him with a huge smile on her face, tucking the paper rose on her ear and pulling down her scarf so Varric has a full view of her face.

"I'd love to start now with that," she says.

Leliana later on noticed how happy Cassandra seems to be nowadays, and all the seeker said about it is that because she finally knew who to thank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The anon never said it had to be lips-to-lips.
> 
> Heh.


	3. seeing clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "hurt/comfort (maybe Cassandra is sick/injured?)". Something along those lines.

Lavellan came out of Cassandra's tent almost as quickly as she had entered it, and all she did as she catches sight of Varric is to smile and shake her head.

Varric did not know what that meant, but coming from Wishes, he was already relieved enough. He knew her well - if there's bad news, she'd tell it with actual words; and if there's good news, she'd be too happy to tell it. He mouths his gratitude as he makes his way to the tent, his crossbow Bianca abandoned in his own tent and bare hands rubbing warmth to each other, nervous of her state.

All he remembered was how much blood was covering her wounds — it was too much to come from just one person, it's coming from everywhere, her head, her chest, _oh Maker where else_ — and it was gladly not too bad as he thought it, seeing what the bandages covered as soon as he catches sight of Cassandra when he entered the tent. She was awake, but she looks like she was staring at the tent flap Varric just pulled aside.

In her hands was the _Swords and Shields_ copy he have given her last month, unopened — as if she was thinking of whether to read it or not.

"Did my romantic writing got a lot better that the cliffhanger left you in such a daze?"

"V—varric? Ah, it's not this," Cassandra replies. She flips the book front-cover-up, and runs a hand over the glossy print. "It's just..." she lost the words before she was able to say them, setting aside the book beside her armor and weapons. "What Lavellan said about my injury might have been true. I tried reading, and the words were swimming out of the page."

"A concussion, huh." He comes closer and picks up the book, before sitting beside her, and opens it, looking for the pressed flower bookmark Cassandra uses. "Lavellan gave us the rest of the day to rest. Want me to read it to you?"

"Ah— There's no need, Varric." She laughs, but her head aches once more and she brings a hand on it in an attempt to stop it. Varric shuts the book close and comes closer, trying to help with a hand in her free one.

"I'd ask if you're okay, but that would be bullshit, right?" He laughs sheepishly, squeezing her hand. "I mean, that giant did short work of you. Never saw you fall that fast."

"I did hear you shout my name in several degrees of concern," Cassandra says after the headache has ceased and the bandage was fixed after she's accidentally undone the knots. "I was wondering if that was just the lyrium in the giant."

Varric didn't say anything as he scoots closer so Cassandra would lean on him, and she did, pulling the blanket over the both of them so he would also share in the warmth. The Emprise has been cruel to all of them with the cold, and it was all he could do to keep Cassandra warm.

But if they could share, he won't complain. Their hands are linked before she knew it.

And Cassandra grips his hand tighter, still waiting for an answer of some form. Varric just picked up the book once again and opens it to the bookmarked page, taking great care so the petals would not fall off the pages.

"Probably the giant, seeker." He grins as he looks to the page she has bookmarked. "Who knows, maybe you'd end up as confused as the guard-captain when she—"

Cassandra was quick to stop him from going any further in the sentence. "No, don't tell me!"

"Well, I'm actually going to read this to you. I mean, I could do voices really great. You remember that night when we were in the tavern and you were drunk so I read the last pages to you?"

"No, I don't think you did that."

"You thought I was legitimately sad when I did the dramatic parts, so you offered me a bunch of _leaves_ to make me feel better."

"Bullshit!" She pulls away, somewhat annoyed, but the hand link stayed.

"How would you know? You were _drunk,_ right? I'm just glad those were mint, at least they smelled rather good."

Despite being not in her best state, she was awake enough to make a sound of disgust from the back of her throat. Varric just grins as he pulls her closer. "Wish I have mint leaves now. Would have helped on your concussion on the slightest."

"Thank you for the concern, but I can hold out... I think."

"Sure you can!" he says. "You defeated a dragon, this is nothing to you. It will pass, seeker, okay?" Varric looks at the book once more before he turns to her and smiles. Cassandra just leans on his shoulder and closes her eyes as she listens to his voice and feel his chest hum as he speaks.

"Let's get on the book, shall we? Nothing to fight a concussion with other than a bad love story."

He clears his throat, and makes short work of her headache; she had dozed off with him later like the book was some bed time tale, ignoring the cold. And when she woke up a few hours later because of his snoring, Cassandra smiles to herself, seeing clearly that she could stay sick for a little longer for this.


End file.
